It’s Sunday morning. Us sleepers are still, but the fan above our beds has been on all night. A haze has come off Table Mountain and it makes the blocks of flats in the city bowl melt into white. The girls are deep in their own stillness; Smooth limbs enmeshed in clouds of clean linen. The threads of my sheet are taught, but a patch near my toes is moth-eaten; small circles of frayed cotton. Like craters on the moon.